The Smoking Gun
by who is sabrina
Summary: A different way the Skipper could have regained his memories. AU for "Forget me Not", if the episode had taken place later in the show. Spoilers for "The Hunter". Disclaimer: I do not own Gilligan's Island.
1. Part I

"Now, go talk to him like his little buddy," the Professor urged. Gilligan nodded determinedly, and slipped easily through the makeshift prison bars. Straightening his hat, he approached the Skipper, watching him sort through the weapons he had collected from around the camp.

"Hey, Skipper!" he called cheerily. "Don't you remember me? It's your little buddy!" The Skipper whirled around, grabbing the weapon closest to his hand - the little silver revolver. He brandished it threateningly at Gilligan.

"What do you think you're doing out here, soldier? Get back in there!" he yelled, his eyes glinting dangerously. Gilligan gulped in the face of this unfamiliar, harsh version of his Skipper, but he stood his ground all the same. He knew the gun was filled only with blanks. Maybe, he thought, if he started to run, the Skipper would give chase. That would give time for the others to escape. They could meet up later and figure out a better plan to bring Skipper to his senses. With this in mind, Gilligan moved away from the prison.

"If you want me back in there, you're gonna have to catch me!" he challenged, and he turned and ran. He heard the click of the gun being cocked and turned around, running backwards for a bit, to see if the Skipper really would fire. He did. But that wasn't what worried the skinny first mate. He knew the gun was filled with blanks. What _did_ worry him was the fact that, as he was running, the back of his legs suddenly connected with something. He felt the all-too-familiar sensation of falling backwards, a confused impression of coldness and wet, and then a sharp pain as his head collided with something hard…

He was getting away, the Skipper thought furiously, and he raised the revolver in his hand, steadily following the fleeing Japanese soldier. He cocked the gun and watched as the Jap began to run backwards, watching the gun in the Skipper's hand warily. If that soldier thought that looking the Skipper in the face would stop him from firing, he was sorely mistaken. He fired.

At that same moment, the soldier, still running backwards, tripped backwards - right into the fresh water trough. Time seemed to slow as the man fell backwards, into the water and out of sight. Because suddenly, the Japanese soldier wasn't a Japanese soldier. He was a familiar skinny, goofy boy in a bright red shirt and a white sailor's hat. He was a beloved friend and first mate, falling backwards into water while the sound of a gunshot echoed through the air. It was a sight the Skipper had seen before…

Except this time, it was worse than in his memory. It was worse, even, than in his nightmares. For this time, it was not Jonathan Kinkaid holding his cursed hunting rifle. It was himself, Jonas Grumby, holding the smoking gun. His heartbeat pounded wildly in his ears, and the offending revolver dropped harmlessly to the ground, slipping from the Skipper's shaking fingers. And then time resumed. Unforgivingly, time continued on.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper cried, and he didn't care that his voice broke. "Gilligan, little buddy!" He ran over to the fresh water trough, and fell to his knees beside it. It was truly a nightmare. It was just as his terrified mind had imagined it the first time, when Kinkaid had pulled the trigger. He could see Gilligan's too-still form beneath the water, but Gilligan's stillness wasn't what scared the Skipper most.

Red was clouding the water.

With lightning speed and the gentlest care, the Skipper reached into the water and pulled out his unconscious first mate, laying him flat on the warm island sand. Just then, the Professor and all the other castaways crowded around, having broken free of their bamboo prison.

"Get back," the Professor commanded urgently, waving them all back a few feet. "Give him some room." The Skipper backed up slightly, not as far as the others, and wrung his hands in immense worry. But the Professor knew just what he was doing, as always, and relief coursed like hot fire through the Skipper's veins as his first mate suddenly lurched up and fell to one side, coughing out water. The Professor grabbed his shoulder, holding him steady. After all the water was out from his lungs, Gilligan collapsed, exhausted, into the Professor, breathing heavily. The Professor positioned himself so Gilligan could stay seated upright. The castaways all were silent, waiting on Gilligan. His dazed eyes wandered slowly about the group, settling finally on the Skipper.

"Skipper?" His voice was terribly hoarse, and the others winced to hear it.

"Right here, little buddy," the Skipper responded immediately, moving closer. Unexpectedly, a small smile stretched across Gilligan's face.

"Hey, you remember!" he cheered weakly. The others chuckled quietly, relieved to hear him sounding like himself. A confused expression suddenly crossed Gilligan's face, and he reached a hand up to his head. He winced, pulling his hand back, and stared as he saw the blood on it.

"You hit your head on the trough when you fell in," the Professor explained gently, looking from Gilligan to the Skipper. The Professor was there too, when they had thought Kinkaid shot Gilligan. The memory had replayed, unbidden, in his head too when the Skipper had fired at Gilligan just as he fell into the water trough. Seeing the Skipper pull an unconscious and bleeding Gilligan from the water had shaken the Professor more than cared to admit. He couldn't imagine what it felt like for the Skipper, holding the gun. It was certainly the worst possible way for the Skipper's memories to come back. But all the same, his memories were back, taking care of that particular problem. However, like always on the island, when one problem is resolved, another problem presents itself, and they now had a drenched, bleeding, and possibly-concussed Gilligan on their hands.

"Alright, we need to get Gilligan back to camp," the Professor announced, taking action. He moved to try to pull Gilligan to his feet, but the Skipper got there first, easily scooping up his first mate. The Professor, having a sudden thought, looked into the trough. There it was - Gilligan's hat. He fished it out, frowning at the new, grim stain it had acquired. He wrung it out, watching the water fall in droplets to the island sand. "Mr. Howell," he called, "could you gather up those weapons, please?" Mr. Howell nodded and carefully rounded up the other weapons that remained beside the prison, and together the castaways headed wearily for home.


	2. Part II

The Skipper set Gilligan carefully into his hammock, and the others crowded around immediately. The first mate squirmed ineffectually, trying to sit up, but multiple hands kept pushing him down again.

"Lay _down_, Gilligan," the Skipper ordered gently.

"I'm okay, Skipper, really," Gilligan rejoined, attempting to sit up once more. The Skipper pushed him firmly back down.

"Oh, Gilligan, just humor us," Mary Ann pleaded, and Gilligan stopped struggling with a sigh.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about," Gilligan mumbled in complaint. "I hit my head all the time."

"Yes, we know, little buddy, but you hit it really hard this time; it's bleeding," the Skipper told him worriedly. "And on top of that, you nearly drowned!" The young sailor opened his mouth to reply, but the Professor interrupted.

"Gilligan, how are you feeling?" he asked, cutting in between Mary Ann and Ginger, gently pulling Gilligan's wrist into his hand. He pulled his pocket watch out with the other hand, and watched it intently, taking Gilligan's pulse. Soon, he nodded and put the watch away, dropping the first mate's wrist. "Fairly normal, if a little quick," he reported. He turned his watchful gaze to Gilligan, who still had not replied. "Well, Gilligan?" the Professor prompted. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright," Gilligan shrugged, through the pounding in his head. The Professor's gaze never wavered, and Gilligan knew he hadn't bought it.

"Tired?" the Professor asked.

"Yeah," Gilligan admitted, careful not to nod.

"Right. Well, the bleeding has stopped, so Ginger, Mary Ann, if you wouldn't mind dressing that wound?"

"No problem, Professor," Ginger responded, and the two girls hurried out of the hut for supplies.

"When they're finished with that, you can go to sleep, Gilligan," he added.

"Thanks, Professor," Gilligan replied gratefully. His voice was heavy with the weight of his fatigue.

"Professor," Mrs. Howell interjected lightly, "what can Thurston and I do to help?"

"I'm afraid there isn't anything left for you to do," he answered. "It's very nice of you to want to help him, but the only thing he needs now is rest. Peace, quiet, and rest."

The Howells nodded gravely and filed out the door, which swung open again seconds after it had swung shut; the girls were back with all the supplies they needed.

"We'll let you girls get to it, then," the Professor said, and he exited the hut, holding the door for the Skipper, an unspoken direction. The Skipper glanced one more time at his exhausted and injured first mate, and then followed the Professor out without a word.

…..

"It was the worst thing I ever saw," the Skipper said quietly, seated at the communal table, across from the Professor. The bright yellow sun of earlier had faded to a pale, unfriendly white, covered now and again by drifting clouds of unforgiving steel. It blanketed the island in a melancholy cloak, and it was doing nothing for the Skipper's mood. "Just think," he lamented. "If those hadn't been blanks…" the Skipper shivered as the icy fist of Fear closed around his insides. The Professor shivered too, affected, and he spared a half-hearted glare at the offending cloud cover.

"Well, they were blanks," the Professor stated adamantly, looking the Skipper in the eyes. "There's no sense in worrying over what could have been. All that matters is what is."

"Oh, of course, Professor," the Skipper nodded. "You're right, as always. I should be glad he isn't more hurt than he is." But he didn't look glad. The sound of the dark waves crashing down upon the silent shore floated over to them, the ebb and flow of the tide the only mark of the passing time. The Skipper's thoughts (and vision) kept returning resolutely to the crooked hut door. He should be in there. He should be taking care of him. But then again - maybe not. He'd done a bang-up job so far.

The Professor shifted, opened his mouth to speak, and then turned it into a sigh. He felt he should say something - anything - to the Skipper, to cheer him up, or comfort him. But the Professor never was the greatest at emotions and all that they entailed, so he remained silent, the unspoken words carried off in the chilling salty breeze. Besides, he felt that the words would do little good coming from him; they would have to come from somewhere else - someone else.

"He _is_ alright, isn't he?" the Skipper asked then, killing the silence. The fear in his voice was the ocean's undertow - not evident on the surface, but there all the same, hidden underneath, strong and unbendingly powerful.

"He'll be creating havoc like normal in a few days' time," the Professor assured him. "He'll have a bad headache, though, and he'll be weak and tired for a bit. But we just need to make sure he rests, and he'll recover quickly. He'll be back on his feet sooner than you know."

Maybe not quite that soon, the Skipper thought, but he nodded, his worries slightly eased. His eyes flicked back to the hut door, and it swung open at that precise moment. Ginger came sashaying out, supplies in her arms, and Mary Ann came following behind, hugging a large bucket of water.

"We cleaned him up," Mary Ann quietly told the Skipper and the Professor as the two girls passed by the table. "He's asleep now."

"Good job, girls." The Professor smiled approvingly, and the smile did not quite reach his eyes. "It's been a long day for all of us; I recommend that we all get some much-needed sleep. Skipper," he added, "let me know if you need any help."

"Will do, Professor," the Skipper responded, and he headed swiftly for his hut.

…..

Gilligan was indeed fast asleep, his boyish features arranged into a perfect calm. His face held not a single hint of pain or discomfort, and it was easy to imagine that the day's events had not happened at all - that they were simply a dream, a nightmare. But sitting innocently atop the sailor's chest was his ever-present white hat, complete with a new, reddish-brown stain. And the first mate's clothes were still damp. The guilt crashed over the Skipper like the ocean on the rocks. Some "buddy" he was. But he would do better. He would always do better.

The Skipper crossed the hut and gathered up a blanket in his arms. He went back to the hammocks, and spread it neatly over his slender first mate, who smiled slightly and scrunched down further beneath the covers, content in the newly-added warmth. The sight heartened the Skipper, and a fond smile found its way onto his lips. Satisfied, he settled down into the lower hammock, and closed his eyes.

…..

The light of the rising sun bathed the hut in gold as the Skipper awoke. He opened his eyes, and laid there for a moment, relishing in the quiet calm of the morning, feeling perfectly pleasant. That is, until the events of the previous day came flooding back with a terrible ferocity. He sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair, and looked at the hammock above him. Gilligan was there, presumably still asleep. Silently, the Skipper stood up and peered into the hammock - and was startled to see his first mate's blue eyes staring back.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper exclaimed in surprise, careful to keep his voice low. "You're awake!"

"Yeah, Skipper," Gilligan replied with a small, tired smile, and he raised himself to a sitting position in one slow but fluid movement. The Skipper only started to protest once the young sailor swung his legs over the side of the hammock.

"Oh, no, you don't," the Skipper chided, gently swinging his first mate's legs back into the hammock. Gilligan's answering pout was akin to seven-year-old denied a piece of chocolate.

"Skipper!" he complained.

"Gilligan, the Professor said you need to rest. Now if rest is what you need, rest is what you're going to get," the Skipper replied firmly.

"But I _did_ rest!" Gilligan protested. The Skipper's expression said it all. "Well, at least let me out for breakfast, huh, Skipper?"

"Well, of course, little buddy, but it's not ready yet. It's dawn now," the Skipper told him, nodding toward the window. Gilligan glanced over at it, squinting in the light of the morning sun. With a sigh, he laid back down, his arms folded behind his head. The Skipper, satisfied that Gilligan was resting, turned to fill a bowl of water to wash up before breakfast. He had barely filled it when Gilligan spoke again.

"Skipper, I'm bored."

"So go to sleep, then."

"I'm not tired, Skipper."

"Gilligan, the Professor said you have to rest."

"Resting is boring."

The Skipper sighed in defeat and abandoned the washing bowl. He pulled a chair out from the table and wheeled it around to face his pouting first mate.

"Okay," he said, sitting heavily in it. "You still need to stay in that hammock, Gilligan, but clearly, I'm going to have to keep you entertained - for the sake of your sanity, and mine." Gilligan turned onto his side, facing the Skipper, an elbow propped beneath him to hold him up. A wide smile stretched across his face at the Skipper's words.

"Gee, thanks, Skipper!" he grinned.

"Alright, little buddy. How about we just talk then?"

"Sure, Skipper! What d'you wanna talk about?" Gilligan asked eagerly. For the briefest of seconds, something flashed across the Skipper's face - so quickly that Gilligan nearly missed it. But he didn't. However fast, he had seen it, and Gilligan got the idea that the Skipper did have something he wanted to talk about. But whatever he had considered saying, he had decided against it.

"I don't know, little buddy. You're the one who needs entertainment, so what do you want to talk about?"

"Hmmm…" Gilligan pondered aloud, looking cheerily about the room as if for a subject. The Skipper, watching his first mate's apparent innocence, felt a sense of foreboding settle over him. Often, Gilligan looked the most inattentive at the exact moment when he was paying the most attention - just like the way he seemed to be clueless about checkers throughout the whole game, right up to the moment he won spectacularly. The smile faded slowly from Gilligan's youthful features, and he regarded the Skipper seriously, meeting his eyes.

"Skipper," he began, slowly and quietly. His blue eyes twinkled in perception and understanding. "Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?" The Skipper blinked and broke the eye contact, staring into the familiar island sand. Of course, Gilligan had hit the nail right on the head.

"Yes, I do," the Skipper admitted finally, looking back up at his first mate, who nodded. "I want to say something, Gilligan, and I don't want you to interrupt me, okay, little buddy? I've gotta say this."

"Say it, Skipper," Gilligan told him. The Skipper sighed quietly, nodding to himself, readying himself.

"I just… I just wanted to say that… I'm sorry." The words had come out, and they had broken the dam; the sentences began to rush out like gushing water. "I'm so sorry for the way I treat you, Gilligan. I mean it. I call myself your buddy and yet I yell at you all the time - for things that I shouldn't. I take you for granted, and I know it. I call myself your captain and yet I order you around in ways a captain shouldn't. I care for you so much, little buddy, I hope you know that, but I only show it when something like this happens - when you're hurt, or sick, or in trouble. I wish it wasn't like that, but it is. Before the week is out, I'll be yelling at you again, for some stupid thing that isn't even your fault, and it'll be like this never happened. Like I never promised to be a better buddy. Like I never promised to show you that I care. Like I never promised to watch out for you, no matter what." A lump was growing in his throat, like one of Mr. Howell's golfballs, and the Skipper swallowed it harshly, feeling the hot burn of tears welling in his eyes. He blinked them away, refusing to cry. "It's just that it's like some sick kind of time travel, living the same cycle over and over again. Mad and frustrated and upset and ungrateful, and then all of a sudden something bad happens, and for a moment I'm the friend I should be. And then we loop back to the beginning. Always to the beginning." The rush of words stopped for a moment, and the Skipper collected himself. He stared straight into the blues of his first mate's eyes. "I'm sorry for going back to the beginning, Gilligan. I wish to _God_ I didn't, but I do. And for that, I'm so, so sorry." The Skipper, his speech finished, stared forlornly at the floor, waiting for Gilligan to do or say something, anything. He could feel his first mate's eyes on him for a long while.

"I'm sorry, too," Gilligan said finally, and the captain's eyes snapped up to meet his own. "I'm sorry that's how you've been seeing it all this time," the first mate said quietly, surely. The Skipper's confusion was evident on his face, an unspoken question. "You're looking at it wrong," Gilligan explained gently. "You see, I think we're doing a kind of time travel thing, too - stuck on repeat, broken record, that kind of thing. But it's a good one. It's only bad to you because you're looking at it wrong." Gilligan fell silent for a minute, his eyes wandering around the room as he collected his thoughts.

"The beginning is the start of something, right, Skipper?" The Skipper nodded. "Well, the Professor was telling me about circles, ya know? How they are perfectly round, and have no beginning and no end? They just keep going and going and going. So I guess there are a million different places you can say a circle begins at. This circle - the one we're in, I mean - you're saying it begins at the point where you're mad and frustrated and upset and ungrateful. You think that's the beginning, and that even though we get to the point where you are, as you say, the friend you should be, we just loop back to the beginning, which is the frustration and stuff. But you're just looking at it wrong," Gilligan said again, smiling slightly. "That's not the beginning, Skipper. That's the _end_." The first mate was quiet for a moment, letting the words sink in.

"The real beginning," the young sailor declared, "is this. The part where you keep telling me how much you care for me - the part where you watch out for me and all that jazz." Here he smiled a little wider, grinning crookedly at the Skipper. "And then later, I eventually mess a whole bunch of stuff up, and yeah, you get a little mad, a little frustrated, a little upset. And yeah, sometimes I wish you didn't," Gilligan confessed, shrugging a little sadly. "But the good thing is - that's the end. After that, it loops to the beginning, as you say, and just like that, you remind me how good you are, Skipper. That you still care, no matter how much I screw up or how angry you get. You're the best friend and father figure I could ever ask for, Skipper, and that's the beginning. _That's_ what we always come back to." The tears welled in the Skipper's eyes with even fiercer force, and he almost couldn't blink them back anymore.

"Gee," the Skipper breathed, too choked up to say much. "I never thought of it that way." And although a rush of affection for his first mate was the foremost emotion running through his veins, he also felt sweet, blessed relief. Maybe he did feel horrid about the way he treated Gilligan, but Gilligan didn't. And that was better. That was so much better. And if Gilligan had such faith about the Skipper's friendship and goodness, then maybe - just maybe - the Skipper could find that faith, too. A hardened determination and resolve possessed the Skipper then, and he smiled back at his first mate. His posture was no longer distraught and discouraged, but rather positive and encouraged. No more promises to Gilligan to be a better buddy, to show him more often that he cared, to not shout as much, to not get so mad. No more promises to Gilligan at all. Because now he was going to promise himself. He was going to be the man that Gilligan saw him as. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday he would. He knew it.

"Good," Gilligan put in then, satisfied, seeing the change that had come over the Skipper. Then a hand came up to stifle a small, tired yawn.

"Go to sleep, little buddy," the Skipper said kindly, standing up and crossing over to the hammock. His first mate slumped down inside it, and the Skipper pulled the blanket up over him. "You get some of that rest now, alright?"

"M'kay, Skipper," the young sailor replied sleepily. His eyes slipped closed.

The Skipper stood there and looked out the window once more, watching the rising sun, higher in the sky now. He felt the island's gentle breeze, and listened to its familiar sounds. He looked back down to his peacefully sleeping first mate, and a rush of gratitude crashed over him. He was so grateful for this skinny, smiling, stumbling boy who had both saved and changed his life, many times and many ways. He let the feeling of gratitude and contentment pulse through him, in time with the island's waves. He promised to remember this feeling. And he promised to aim to be everything he was in Gilligan's eyes. He would aim, and shoot for that target, and he knew that if that bullet ever did hit the bulls-eye, it would be Gilligan who would be holding the smoking gun, for it was always Gilligan who got him there, in the end.

And just as Gilligan was always there - knowingly and even unknowingly - for him, so too would the Skipper be there for Gilligan.

Always.

The Skipper nodded to himself, and went to the window, through which the day's light was streaming in, brighter and brighter. He pulled down the makeshift blinds, obscuring the light, letting Gilligan sleep. Then he went back to the chair and sat in it. His feet went up on the table, and his arms folded themselves behind his head. He thought again how circular life was sometimes, round and round again and again. Certainly, he had done this very thing plenty of times before, but he was always glad to do it. With a small smile, he settled down further into the chair, making himself comfortable, turning his eyes to Gilligan's relaxed form. Keeping vigil.


End file.
